


Wrong Victory

by gerty_3000



Category: Hotline Miami (Video Games)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 19:06:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4533687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gerty_3000/pseuds/gerty_3000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A connection is made, and abruptly broken</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Connection Made

**Author's Note:**

> warning for... affection to corpses i guess.
> 
> Lawrence = Jacket. Cindy = girlfriend

Richard was never really a fan of people. They were too complicated, and they expected the same level of complexity in him that he wasn't able to provide. He had no issues or qualms with staying inside and never having to know another soul. He had spent, and wasted, enough of his life trying to form connections, and decided that it just wasn't his bag. 

He would hesitate to say 'things changed', but... they sort of did. Not at first, but on his fourth hit. It was a house, the thick, putrid smell of sex, sweat, what was probably mold, dirty clothes and of course, rubber, filling his nostrils to accompany the scent of blood and viscera. It was all a haze, like everything else in his world was. There hadn't appeared to be anything new in this house; except, for when he tried to leave.

A voice called out to him.

Weak, wavering, and distressingly feminine, considering everyone he'd slaughtered so far was male. He blinked twice behind the thick rubber mask, coughing awkwardly as he made his way towards the back of the house. The sight was haunting. A woman clad in her underwear, used needles beside her, spotlights and cameras. It made him sick to his stomach. She begged him to do the same that he'd done to the others in the house. Richard couldn't even bear the thought. He slid his crimson-stained hands between her body and the bed, and lifted her up, light as a leaf. She was so light, her ribs and hips sticking out, he barely felt her weight against his chest as he carefully maneuvered through the doorways, and over the bodies, a sickening squelching sound as his sneakers stuck to the blood-soaked carpets. 

From there, things had a shift. He still had hits on a bi-weekly basis. He still stopped by the bar, or the pizza shop, or the convenience store, or the VHS Palace on his way home. He still sat in front of the TV for hours on end, feeling like a brainwashed zombie. He still neglected self care to even the most basic level. He rarely noticed the woman's presence, despite the fact that she was there a lot. He'd bump into her in the kitchen when he went to get a soda from the fridge, or she'd sit with him on the couch and watch TV with him, or he'd catch a glimpse of her hurriedly ducking out of the bathroom and into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around her body. It was odd but acceptable, like with all things Richard found in life. Odd, but acceptable. For the first few weeks, he assumed she was another hallucination.

Despite the lack of communication in those starting days, though, their connection had been made and grew. They didn't talk that much. Richard didn't like talking, and Cindy just... didn't find many words to say. He noticed small things in his house, though. The trash was starting to be taken out more regularly. Moldy, forgotten food was thrown out. The gnats and fruit flies started to disappear. Lights that were usually left off had been turned on more, which surprisingly, sort of brightened up Richard's dour mood.

They slept together. They didn't have sex, they didn't even really get more intimate than bare legs curled against each other, her breasts pressed against his back as she was endearingly deemed the big spoon. He woke up with skinny, pale limbs entangled in his own, the blanket situated at their ankles because their shared body heat was enough to keep them warm. 

In the mornings, where breakfast was usually skipped, she made meals for both of them, and encouraged Richard to eat when he'd forget. Where she was malnourished and ghastly thin, she quickly regained the weight she lost, cellulite soon forming. Richard didn't mind. It meant she was no longer starving, her stomach no longer shrunken and small.

For the most part, Richard didn't notice the changes. They happened gradually, over time and in ways that wouldn't have mattered to him anyways. At least, he tried to convince himself they wouldn't.

When he came home on June 8th, however, he could already feel the shift in the air. His head was full of static, the shrieking, painful white noise that clawed at his throat and behind his eyes. He'd set someone on fire today, after bashing his head in with his knees, and twisting his limbs to a fractured mess. It was out of the blue, he didn't know why he did it, but he felt a certain rage inside of him, different from all the other times.

He entered through the front door of his apartment, and instantly felt the change in the air. It was electric, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end with fear. He clenched his jaw, teeth aching from the pressure, and walked towards the bathroom. It reeked of blood, but he wasn't sure if that was from a new source, or the gore on himself. He pushed the door opem, and stopped in his tracks.

It was her.

She was on the floor.

There was blood everywhere.

It stained the floor, mostly, but there were bloody handprints on the walls, on the sink, dragging down, she had stumbled in here, she was laying in a puddle of her own blood and it was cold and he was standing in it and her eyes were open and they were rolled into the back of her skull and the bright blue of her iris was only barely visible and her chest wasn't moving and she was limp.

Richard felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. He was staring at her body, blinking rapidly, mouth gaping open and taking in heavy breaths. This had to be fake, this had to be an illusion, a delusion, a hallucination. It had to be anything but real. He fell to his knees, murmuring under his breath, trying to reassure her as his hands ghosted over the four bloody holes in her body, in her stomach and sternum and collarbone and chest. Who would do this? He could feel the icy cold blood seep into his pants, but he was hardly worried about that. The static in his ears and behind his eyes was a dull roar, blurring every thought. She wasn't breathing, but she could still be saved. He shakily got to his feet, and went to the living room, staggering on his way to the phone. He didn't like talking, but he had to make an exception to call an ambulance, because the woman who brought light to his life was now laying on his bathroom floor with blood everywhere.

He hadn't expected the man to be sitting there, holding a silenced uzi, but the firearm in his hands told him everything he needed to be told. Yet, Richard couldn't move, eyes wide and hands dangling at his sides as he spoke, talking as if the trash needed to be taken out.

Richard had barely any time to react before the rat-mask wearing man raised his hand, and fired a shot into his skull.


	2. A Connection Broken

He woke up in his room. 

Or... Did he? 

He didn't. It wasn't his room. It was a hospital bed. He wasn't in his underwear, like he preferred to sleep in, but instead a paper gown that made his skin itch. There was something against his head, bandages, that tangled around his throat. He felt hazy, a sharp pain that positively sung as he swung his numb legs over the edge of the bed and stood. He nearly fell over, feeling groggy, like he was underwater, but he knew he needed to get out. He knew something was wrong. He needed to get home. 

Richard staggered towards the window, weakly fiddling with the latches, and somehow managing to shimmy out. From there, it was a very carefully coordinated dash-and-wait, peering through the windows while he clutched at his head, ducking in and out of patient's rooms. Somehow he made it out the front doors of the hospital, and even more miraculously, found his car. He drove himself home with hardly any consciousness, eyes lidded and mouth slack. 

His apartment was absolutely trashed. That he wasn't expecting, but wasn't surprised when he tore down the police tape over his door and walked inside, only to find stains on the floor, his TV stolen, hell, they even stole the pillows and sheets from his goddamn bed. He needed information, though. He needed to find out why he was targeted.

When he went into the bathroom, and saw the chalk outline of her body, the emotions hit him like a tidal wave. He couldn't stand, his knees singing in pain as he collapsed and the bone hit the hard linoleum. The mess had been cleaned up but it was a shitty job, he could still see the faint red against the tiles. He could still smell what had made the woman up. Her perfume, her shampoo, the detergent she used to wash her clothes, and of course, her blood. It was a horrible smell that brought tears to his eyes and constricted his chest so tight he couldn't breathe correctly.

For a long time, Richard just laid on the floor, feeling the cold seep through the tile and into his cheeks, easing his headache and helping the hotness in his red, wet face. He sobbed, fingers scrabbling against the edges of the tiles where the white chalk made up the shape of her body, her not-so-final resting place. He didn't know how long he stayed there, half-curled into a fetal position on the floor of his bathroom, heaving and wailing his pain.

It got even worse when he finally stood up, shaky and aching, and tried to move towards the bedroom, because in his peripheral he could see her. Not like his usual visions, of people in pain and with missing limbs, eyes missing but still speaking, but her actual body. Stuffed in the fridge, body crumpled and mangled like a terrifying puppet. Her body was pale and blue, stiff, awkwardly poking out of the small space. Richard could only manage to stagger over to her, and, as carefully as he could, tug her out. She reeked, of death, of old blood, of her perfume and shampoo and she was naked for some unholy reason but when she was finally out of the kitchen appliance, she looked somewhat... peaceful.

As peaceful as a corpse could look, with blood staining her pale, pale face. Her lips were still pink, though, with smudged lipstick and dried gore. He carefully carried her back to the bedroom, eyes wide as he dug through his closet. One of her favorite outfits was still in there, thankfully, and he dressed her, handling her fragile body like a porcelain doll, hands shaking as he tugged her hot pink shorts on, hands lingering at her hips.

Once she was dressed, he cleaned her up. He dabbed at the dried blood on her face and throat. Her shirt hid the rest, which was a blessing because he couldn't bare to undress her again. Richard laid down, curling up against the cold, stiff body, eyes wide, searching her face, trying to find the life that he remembered so dearly. 

There was nothing, though. Just a pale blue shell, and unmoving expression. He lied to himself, he told himself that his beloved was just sleeping. He ran his fingers through her hair, undoing the mussed ponytail and trying to style the limp curls, as if it would look anything like they used to. It helped, but it wasn't the same. He pressed his face against her throat, resting his chin on her collarbone, whispering soft, comforting words to her, as if she could hear them. He begged for her to come back, for her to wrap her arms around him and assure him it'll be OK. 

He contemplated what he would do. At first, his life was meaningless. He would carry out 50 Blessing's hits, go home, sleep, occasionally eat, wake up, and do it again when called to. Then he met Cindy, and things were a little brighter. His next mission had to be revenge, obviously. She had been given to him, then ripped mercilessly from his arms. It wasn't fair, and he needed retribution in some form. But would revenge even help? It wouldn't bring her back. He would never hear her laugh or feel her warmth again, or the quiet, one-sided conversations over breakfast, or her commentary on the movies he rented and watched with her.

Richard thought he was out of tears when he cried in the bathroom. He was wrong. Thinking of the good times made his chest ache, and his eyes sting, and he heaved with sobs that wracked his body, leaving him shuddering and exhausted. He loved her, and he liked to think that she loved him back, and nothing he would do would bring either back. The cryptic message, that nothing he did from here on out wouldn't matter, rang out in the back of his head.

But it would matter. He would give himself purpose by reprimanding the horrible fate he brought to her. Only after he brought down justice on his antagonists would 'nothing matter'. He would bring down fiery hell upon the Russians, the police, anyone who dared stand in his way. He would not show mercy.

For now, though. For now...

For now, he rested, with her in his arms.


End file.
